Santa Baby
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine] Blaine gets woken up in the middle of the night by someone singing Christmas songs right outside his window. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


**author's notes:** **HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL MY SEBLAINERS! **Just wrote this in two hours flat because I really wanted to get you all something for Christmas. Have a beautiful holiday season, darlings!

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_**Santa Baby;;**_

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"_Santa baaaby-y-y_."

He wakes from a strange dream where Rachel, Santana and Brittany danced in sexy Santa outfits, kind of like that scene from _Mean Girls_, only for some reason he was the one singing the song. What woke him up anyway? It's still pitch black outside and he deserved to sleep in.

"_Just slip a S-s-able under the tree_."

Is he still dreaming?

"_For me. Been… been an awful good girl_."

Laughter sounds, and a chill catches along his calf where his leg had slipped from underneath the covers; he pulls it under the warm cozy bedding again and twists tighter in the duvet.

"_Santa baby-y-y. Hurry down the ch-chimney tonight_."

With one eye he glances at the clock next to his bed, and groans.

3.07am.

_3am_?

He huffs and pulls a second pillow closer to insulate both sides of his head, hoping it'll block out the wailing cat noises from outside.

"_Think of aaaaaall the fun I missed. Think of all the fellas that I…_" –someone giggles– "_haven't kissed_."

Sighing, he turns on his back, blinking up at the ceiling through the darkness. Why did this have to happen to him? He had a perfectly wonderful Christmas Eve with his closest friends – Santana and Brittany actually did do the sexy Santa dance now that he's awake enough to think about it – and he really doesn't need some drunk man on his way home butchering a great Christmas song right below his window.

"_Next year I could be just as good_!"

The voice outside rises in volume.

He gets out of bed, shivering when his feet touch the cold floor, and walks over to the window. Unfortunately he's on the first floor, and with the windows frosty and the dark dead of night, he can't make out anything. And he's more than reluctant to shout at some random stranger on the street to shut the hell up; it's cold out there, and this person might not have anywhere else to go.

"… _if you check off my Christmas list, doo doop ti doo_."

Rolling his eyes almost fondly he decides to go have a look. He rolls on some warm socks and quickly toes on winter boots, throws on a thickly knit cardigan, and wraps his scarf and coat protectively around his body to avoid any actual frostbite – temperatures in New York dropped well below freezing about a week ago, and while he loved the sight of snow, the white downy flakes proved a lot more attractive back home than in a big city that had effectively shut down thanks to the winter freeze. Oh well, he got by.

Once he braves the cold outside, however, he regrets not putting on any warmer clothes; his pajamas aren't as warm out here than they are inside the cocoon he made in the bed. But it's up to him; his downstairs neighbors went home for Christmas, as did a lot of his other neighbors, while he finally stayed in New York for Christmas – his parents would drop by for dinner tomorrow, and so far Christmas in the city had been magical. Everyone huddled inside to get warm, no one looked at him funny when he showed up in a Christmas sweater covered with moose – in fact, Rachel matched his enthusiasm for Christmassy knitwear.

_"Doo doop ti doo_," a low tenor sounds to his right, the voice coming from the heap of dustbins and trash hastily thrown together earlier this evening.

"Hello?" he calls, hesitant to venture any closer. What if it's a bum scrounging for leftovers, or worse, a burglar doing a piss-poor job of breaking in?

"Who's there?" a voice calls. A rather nice voice.

An empty bottle of wine rolls through the slushy snow towards him, before two long legs kick out at a trash bag – the two feet that come into view are adorned with shiny designer shoes. Not a bum then. He toes a few steps closer, and in the heap of trash he finds a very confused and extremely drunk heap of a boy struggling to get up.

"Oh my God." He shoots forward. "Are you okay?"

"Hmpf." The stranger pauses, reaches underneath him and unearths another empty bottle of wine that must've been pushing into his back. "I seem to be stuck in the remains of what looked like a very good party."

"So you're not—homeless?" he asks carefully, his body temperature steadily dropping.

The boy snorts loudly, and tries to get up. "No." He slips again. "_Fuck_."

Reaching down he grabs the boy with both hands and pulls him upright; he sways on his feet, clearly inebriated and shivering.

"Are you–" the boy squints through the dark, "–wearing Christmas tree PJs?"

He stares down at his pants, the bright green blotted with Christmas trees all over. It was a gift from Rachel; it seemed wasteful not to wear them. "It's 3am," he says. "I was asleep. And I hadn't planned on anyone seeing me like this."

The boy giggles. "My bad."

"Why exactly were you singing Christmas songs underneath my window at 3am in the morning?"

"Sorry, sweetheart." The boy grins, but if he were to let go of his arms he's pretty sure that cocky demeanor would be traded for one of shock; he doubts he could remain upright for more than two steps. "Didn't know it was _your_ window. And I seem to have lost my sense of direction."

"Come inside," his mouth says before his brain has processed it. Did he just invite a total stranger into his home in the middle of the night?

They stagger inside with a certain amount of difficulty, the cold slowing him down along with the boy's uncoordinated limbs. As he sits the boy down on the couch in the dim lighting of his apartment, he can finally take a proper look at the boy he saved from freezing to death – he's wearing a long designer coat that matches his shoes and black gloves, and he's willing to bet everything underneath is as expensive as the rest of his outfit. He has a handsome face, some beautiful freckles dotted in odd places, and beautiful eyes.

"Where do you live?" he asks once he's stripped out of his coat and boots.

"At the–" the boy points at a random spot on the wall and falls back into the couch. "You know, the– Ah hell, who the hell knows."

He sits down next to the boy. "Do you have an ID?"

"I know my name. I'm not that drunk." The boy frowns. "It's Sebastian."

He laughs lovingly and reaches for one of Sebastian's coat pockets. It seems he'll have to get to the bottom of this on his own. "For your address, dummy." He digs around in one pocket, but only finds a phone and some candy cane wrappers, Sebastian's wallet in the other pocket. There's a lot of cash inside, two credit cards, an expired library card and discount cards for various coffee shops around the city, but not what he's looking for: anything that might have Sebastian's address on it. "Where's your license?"

"Don't have one."

"What?"

"I live in New York, killer. I don't need one." Sebastian folds his arms behind his head like it's something to be proud of – cocky, rich _and_ spoiled, he decides, even though he tries not to judge people. There has to be a reason why Sebastian ended up drunk, lost and alone outside his window tonight, _on Christmas Eve_ of all nights. There's something almost sad about it.

"Fine," he caves. "You'll stay here then."

Sebastian's phone might hold some emergency contacts, but save for a hangover in the morning Sebastian isn't in any immediate danger, and he'd rather not wake anyone else up this late at night. It's Christmas, and he's awake now, he might as well lend a helping hand.

"Really?" Sebastian blinks. "I could be a hustler," he says, voice settling into a New York accent that takes him completely by surprise. "A con-man. A two-timing good-for-nothing crook and swindler."

He throws his head back and laughs, enamored by the heap of boy swiftly transforming into a nice young man. "Not with a last name like Smythe, you're not."

"Oh, you're cheeky."

He bites at his lip, feeling himself blush. He shouldn't let this go to his head so fast, especially not since Sebastian's _very_ drunk and doesn't even know his name, but Sebastian seems like the kind of guy he wouldn't mind getting to know better.

"I'll go get you some blankets."

He leaves for his bedroom and rummages about his closet for a while before he finds what he's looking for – he's not used to putting up guests on his couch; the few times Rachel's stayed over because she got too drunk they both slept in his bed, but that's a bet he's not willing to make with a total stranger, cute or not.

He grabs another pillow and all the bedding he needs and makes for the doorway, halting dead in his tracks when he finds Sebastian there, standing underneath a strategically but unintentionally placed branch of mistletoe. _Rachel_, he growls internally, but there's no way she could've actually known he'd start Christmas day with a handsome and rich trust fund kid in his apartment, is there?

"Sebastian–" he says softly, but finds himself swallowing a stream of objections that never reaches his lips.

When Sebastian does lean in he doesn't panic, he doesn't _think_, he doesn't question how dangerous or how surreal it all is, how incredibly fateful this night has been, how he could have easily ignored Sebastian's drunken song and gone on dreaming about his friends in sexy Santa outfits. The kiss is soft and careful, Sebastian's thumb tracing reverent along his jawline and soft lips pressing into his.

It's the best kiss he's had in ages and he doesn't know what that says about his love life.

"What was that for?" he whispers, Sebastian pulling back half an inch, not enough to lift the spell.

"Just keeping with tradition," Sebastian says, touching his forehead to his. "I really needed someone to show me kindness tonight."

He wants to ask what happened, he wants to know who Sebastian got all dressed up for and then treated him badly; with every moment that passes Sebastian becomes more of a puzzle he wants to solve and he's happy he decided to invite him inside.

Sebastian traces a step back, a hint of sadness to his eyes he wishes he could erase. But that's not what Sebastian needs right now. He makes up the couch and gets Sebastian out of his coat and shoes, and tucks him in tight underneath the covers. His head has no sooner touched the pillow or his melancholy stranger is out like a light, softly snoring.

He plants a kiss to Sebastian's forehead. "Merry Christmas, Sebastian Smythe."

.

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**_fin_**

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End file.
